THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

PROFESSOR  WILLIAM  MERRILL 

AND 
MRS.  IMOGENE  MERRILL 

BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


HE  PAGEANT 
OF  SUMMER 
BY  RICHARD 
JEFFERIES  j» 


GI 


T 


HE  PAGEANT 
OF  SUMMER 


Originally  printed  in  Longman'^ 
Magazine,  June,  1883,  and  re-issued 
in  the  volume  entitled  The  Life  of 
the  Fields,  London,  1884. 


q^HE     PAGEANT     OF     SUMMER 
HV      RICHARD      JKFFERIES 


PORTLAND   MAINE 
THOMAS  B  MOSHER 
MDCCCCI 


BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


• 
GIFT 

^Mrlj 


BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


PROEM 


1DO  not  want  change  :  I  want  the  same  old  and 
loved  things,  the  same  wild-flowers,  the  same 
trees  and  soft  ash-green  ;  the  turtle-doves,  the 
blackbirds,  the  coloured  yellowhammer  sing,  sing, 
singing  so  long  as  there  is  light  to  cast  a  shadow 
on  the  dial,  for  such  is  the  measure  of  his  song, 
and  I  want  them  in  the  same  place.  Let  me  find 
them  morning  after  morning,  the  starry-white  pet- 
als radiating,  striving  upwards  to  their  ideal.  Let 
me  see  the  idle  shadows  resting  on  the  white  dust ; 
let  me  hear  the  humble-bees,  and  stay  to  look 
down  on  the  rich  dandelion  disc.  Let  me  see  the 
very  thistles  opening  their  great  crowns — I  should 
miss  the  thistles ;  the  reed-grasses  hiding  the  moor- 
hen ;  the  bryony  bine,  at  first  crudely  ambitious 
and  lifted  by  force  of  youthful  sap  straight  above 
the  hedgerow  to  sink  of  its  own  weight  presently 
and  progress  with  crafty  tendrils ;  swifts  shot 
through  the  air  with  outstretched  wings  like 
crescent-headed  shaftless  arrows  darted  from  the 
clouds ;  the  chaffinch  with  a  feather  in  her  bill ;  all 
the  living  staircase  of  the  spring,  step  by  step, 
upwards  to  the  great  gallery  of  the  summer  —  let 
me  watch  the  same  succession  year  by  year. 


M699160 


II 

A  LITTLE  feather  droops  downward  to  the 
ground  —  a  swallow's  feather  fuller  of  mira- 
cle than  the  Pentateuch  —  how  shall  that 
feather  be  placed  again  in  the  breast  where  it 
grew?  Nothing  twice.  Time  changes  the  places 
that  knew  us,  and  if  we  go  back  in  after  years,  still 
even  then  it  is  not  the  old  spot ;  the  gate  swings 
differently,  new  thatch  has  been  put  on  the  old 
gables,  the  road  has  been  widened,  and  the  sward 
the  driven  sheep  lingered  on  is  gone.  Who  dares 
to  think  then?  For  faces  fade  as  flowers,  and 
there  is  no  consolation.  So  now  I  am  sure  I  was 
right  in  always  walking  the  same  way  by  the  starry 
flowers  striving  upwards  on  a  slender  ancestry  of 
stem  ;  I  would  follow  the  plain  old  road  to-day  if  I 
could.  Let  change  be  far  from  me  ;  that  irresisti- 
ble change  must  come  is  bitter  indeed.  Give  me 
the  old  road,  the  same  flowers  —  they  were  only 
stitchwort  —  the  old  succession  of  days  and  garland, 
ever  weaving  into  it  fresh  wild-flowers  from  far  and 
near.  Fetch  them  from  distant  mountains,  dis- 
cover them  on  decaying  walls,  in  unsuspected 
corners;  though  never  seen  before,  still  they  are 
the  same :  there  has  been  a  place  in  the  heart 
waiting  for  them. 

RICHARD    JEFFERIES 

From  ' '  Wild  Flowers  " 


T 


HE  PAGEANT 
OF  SUMMER 


"  /  wonder  to  myself  how  they  can 
all  get  on  without  me  ;  how  they  man- 
age, bird  and  flower,  without  ME,  to 
keep  the  calendar  for  them.  For  I 
noted  it  so  carefully  and  lovingly  day 
by  day." 


THE  PAGEANT  OF  SUMMER 
I 


KEEN  rushes,  long  and  thick,  stand- 
V_J  ing  up  above  the  edge  of  the  ditch, 
told  the  hour  of  the  year  as  distinctly  as 
the  shadow  on  the  dial  the  hour  of  the 
day.  Green  and  thick  and  sappy  to  the 
touch,  they  felt  like  summer,  soft  and 
elastic,  as  if  full  of  life,  mere  rushes 
though  they  were.  On  the  fingers  they 
left  a  green  scent  ;  rushes  have  a  separate 
scent  of  green,  so,  too,  have  ferns,  very 
different  to  that  of  grass  or  leaves.  Ris- 
ing from  brown  sheaths,  the  tall  stems 
enlarged  a  little  in  the  middle,  like  classi- 
cal columns,  and  heavy  with  their  sap  and 
freshness,  leaned  against  the  hawthorn 
sprays.  From  the  earth  they  had  drawn 
its  moisture,  and  made  the  ditch  dry; 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

some  of  the  sweetness  of  the  air  had 
entered  into  their  fibres,  and  the  rushes — 
the  common  rushes — were  full  of  beauti- 
ful summer.  The  white  pollen  of  early 
grasses  growing  on  the  edge  was  dusted 
from  them  each  time  the  hawthorn  boughs 
were  shaken  by  a  thrush.  These  lower 
sprays  came  down  in  among  the  grass, 
and  leaves  and  grass-blades  touched. 
Smooth  round  stems  of  angelica,  big  as  a 
gun-barrel,  hollow  and  strong,  stood  on 
the  slope  of  the  mound,  their  tiers  of 
well-balanced  branches  rising  like  those 
of  a  tree.  Such  a  sturdy  growth  pushed 
back  the  ranks  of  hedge  parsley  in  full 
white  flower,  which  blocked  every  avenue 
and  winding  bird's-path  of  the  bank.  But 
the  '  gix,'  or  wild  parsnip,  reached  already 
high  above  both,  and  would  rear  its  fluted 
stalk,  joint  on  joint,  till  it  could  face  a 
man.  Trees  they  were  to  the  lesser  birds, 
not  even  bending  if  perched  on;  but 
though  so  stout,  the  birds  did  not  place 
their  nests  on  or  against  them.  Some- 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

thing  in  the  odour  of  these  umbelliferous 
plants,  perhaps,  is  not  quite  liked;  if 
brushed  or  bruised  they  give  out  a  bitter 
greenish  scent.  Under  their  cover,  well 
shaded  and  hidden,  birds  build,  but  not 
against  or  on  the  stems,  though  they  will 
affix  their  nests  to  much  less  certain  sup- 
ports. With  the  grasses  that  overhung 
the  edge,  with  the  rushes  in  the  ditch 
itself,  and  these  great  plants  on  the 
mound,  the  whole  hedge  was  wrapped 
and  thickened.  No  cunning  of  glance 
could  see  through  it;  it  would  have 
needed  a  ladder  to  help  any  one  look 
over. 

It  was  between  the  may  and  the  June 
roses.  The  may  bloom  had  fallen,  and 
among  the  hawthorn  boughs  were  the 
little  green  bunches  that  would  feed  the 
redwings  in  autumn.  High  up  the  briars 
had  climbed,  straight  and  towering  while 
there  was  a  thorn  or  an  ash  sapling,  or  a 
yellow-green  willow  to  uphold  them,  and 
then  curving  over  towards  the  meadow. 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

The  buds  were  on  them,  but  not  yet  open ; 
it  was  between  the  may  and  the  rose. 

As  the  wind,  wandering  over  the  sea, 
takes  from  each  wave  an  invisible  portion, 
and  brings  to  those  on  shore  the  ethereal 
essence  of  ocean,  so  the  air  lingering 
among  the  woods  and  hedges  —  green 
waves  and  billows — became  full  of  fine 
atoms  of  summer.  Swept  from  notched 
hawthorn  leaves,  broad-topped  oak  leaves, 
narrow  ash  sprays  and  oval  willows ;  from 
vast  elm  cliffs  and  sharp-taloned  brambles 
under;  brushed  from  the  waving  grasses 
and  stiffening  corn,  the  dust  of  the  sun- 
shine was  borne  along  and  breathed. 
Steeped  in  flower  and  pollen  to  the  music 
of  bees  and  birds,  the  stream  of  the  atmos- 
phere became  a  living  thing.  It  was  life 
to  breathe  it,  for  the  air  itself  was  life. 
The  strength  of  the  earth  went  up  through 
the  leaves  into  the  wind.  Fed  thus  on 
the  food  of  the  Immortals,  the  heart 
opened  to  the  width  and  depth  of  the 
summer — to  the  broad  horizon  afar,  down 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

to  the  minutest  creature  in  the  grass,  up 
to  the  highest  swallow.  Winter  shows  us 
Matter  in  its  dead  form,  like  the  Primary 
rocks,  like  granite  and  basalt — clear  but 
cold  and  frozen  crystal.  Summer  shows 
us  Matter  changing  into  life,  sap  rising 
from  the  earth  through  a  million  tubes, 
the  alchemic  power  of  light  entering  the 
solid  oak ;  and  see !  it  bursts  forth  in 
countless  leaves.  Living  things  leap  in 
the  grass,  living  things  drift  upon  the  air, 
living  things  are  coming  forth  to  breathe 
in  every  hawthorn  bush.  No  longer  does 
the  immense  weight  of  Matter — the  dead, 
the  crystallised  —  press  ponderously  on 
the  thinking  mind.  The  whole  office  of 
Matter  is  to  feed  life  —  to  feed  the  green 
rushes,  and  the  roses  that  are  about  to 
be;  to  feed  the  swallows  above,  and  us 
that  wander  beneath  them.  So  much 
greater  is  this  green  and  common  rush 
than  all  the  Alps. 

Fanning  so  swiftly,  the  wasp's  wings 
are  but  just  visible  as  he  passes;  did  he 


THE    PAGEANT    OF   SUMMER 

pause,  the  light  would  be  apparent  through 
their  texture.  On  the  wings  of  the  dragon- 
fly as  he  hovers  an  instant  before  he 
darts  there  is  a  prismatic  gleam.  These 
wing  textures  are  even  more  delicate  than 
the  minute  filaments  on  a  swallow's  quill, 
more  delicate  than  the  pollen  of  a  flower. 
They  are  formed  of  matter  indeed,  but 
how  exquisitely  it  is  resolved  into  the 
means  and  organs  of  life!  Though  not 
often  consciously  recognised,  perhaps  this 
is  the  great  pleasure  of  summer,  to  watch 
the  earth,  the  dead  particles,  resolving 
themselves  into  the  living  case  of  life,  to 
see  the  seed-leaf  push  aside  the  clod  and 
become  by  degrees  the  perfumed  flower. 
From  the  tiny  mottled  egg  come  the  wings 
that  by  and  by  shall  pass  the  immense 
sea.  It  is  in  this  marvellous  transforma- 
tion of  clods  and  cold  matter  into  living 
things  that  the  joy  and  the  hope  of 
summer  reside.  Every  blade  of  grass, 
each  leaf,  each  separate  floret  and  petal 
is  an  inscription  speaking  of  hope.  Con- 


THE    PAGEANT    OF   SUMMER 

sider  the  grasses  and  the  oaks,  the 
swallows,  the  sweet  blue  butterfly — they 
are  one  and  all  a  sign  and  token  showing 
before  our  eyes  earth  made  into  life.  So 
that  my  hope  becomes  as  broad  as  the 
horizon  afar,  reiterated  by  every  leaf,  sung 
on  every  bough,  reflected  in  the  gleam  of 
every  flower.  There  is  so  much  for  us 
yet  to  come,  so  much  to  be  gathered,  and 
enjoyed.  Not  for  you  or  me,  now,  but 
for  our  race,  who  will  ultimately  use  this 
magical  secret  for  their  happiness.  Earth 
holds  secrets  enough  to  give  them  the 
life  of  the  fabled  Immortals.  My  heart  is 
fixed  firm  and  stable  in  the  belief  that 
ultimately  the  sunshine  and  the  summer, 
the  flowers  and  the  azure  sky,  shall 
become,  as  it  were,  interwoven  into  man's 
existence.  He  shall  take  from  all  their 
beauty  and  enjoy  their  glory.  Hence  it 
is  that  a  flower  is  to  me  so  much  more 
than  stalk  and  petals.  When  I  look  in 
the  glass  I  see  that  every  line  in  my  face 
means  pessimism ;  but  in  spite  of  my  face 

15 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

—  that  is  my  experience  —  I  remain  an 
optimist.  Time  with  an  unsteady  hand 
has  etched  thin  crooked  lines,  and,  deep- 
ening the  hollows,  has  cast  the  original 
expression  into  shadow.  Pain  and  sorrow 
flow  over  us  with  little  ceasing,  as  the 
sea-hoofs  beat  on  the  beach.  Let  us  not 
look  at  ourselves  but  onwards,  and  take 
strength  from  the  leaf  and  the  signs  of 
the  field.  He  is  indeed  despicable  who 
cannot  look  onwards  to  the  ideal  life 
of  man.  Not  to  do  so  is  to  deny  our 
birthright  of  mind. 

The  long  grass  flowing  towards  the 
hedge  has  reared  in  a  wave  against  it. 
Along  the  hedge  it  is  higher  and  greener, 
and  rustles  into  the  very  bushes.  There 
is  a  mark  only  now  where  the  footpath 
was;  it  passed  close  to  the  hedge,  but  its 
place  is  traceable  only  as  a  groove  in  the 
sorrel  and  seed-tops.  Though  it  has  quite 
filled  the  path,  the  grass  there  cannot  send 
its  tops  so  high;  it  has  left  a  winding 
crease.  By  the  hedge  here  stands  a  moss- 

16 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

grown  willow,  and  its  slender  branches 
extend  over  the  sward.  Beyond  it  is  an 
oak,  just  apart  from  the  bushes;  then  the 
ground  gently  rises,  and  an  ancient  pollard 
ash,  hollow  and  black  inside,  guards  an 
open  gateway  like  a  low  tower.  The  differ- 
ent tone  of  green  shows  that  the  hedge  is 
there  of  nut-trees ;  but  one  great  hawthorn 
spreads  out  in  a  semicircle  roofing  the 
grass  which  is  yet  more  verdant  in  the  still 
pool  (as  it  were)  under  it.  Next  a  corner, 
more  oaks,  and  a  chestnut  in  bloom.  Re- 
turning to  this  spot  an  old  apple-tree  stands 
right  out  in  the  meadow  like  an  island. 
There  seemed  just  now  the  tiniest  twinkle 
of  movement  by  the  rushes,  but  it  was  lost 
among  the  hedge  parsley.  Among  the 
grey  leaves  of  the  willow  there  is  another 
flit  of  motion ;  and  visible  now  against  the 
sky  there  is  a  little  brown  bird,  not  to  be 
distinguished  at  the  moment  from  the 
many  other  little  brown  birds  that  are 
known  to  be  about.  He  got  up  into  the 
willow  from  the  hedge  parsley  somehow, 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

without  being  seen  to  climb  or  fly.  Sud- 
denly he  crosses  to  the  tops  of  the  haw- 
thorn and  immediately  flings  himself  up 
into  the  air  a  yard  or  two,  his  wings  and 
ruffled  crest  making  a  ragged  outline ;  jerk, 
jerk,  jerk,  as  if  it  were  with  the  utmost 
difficulty  he  could  keep  even  at  that  height. 
He  scolds,  and  twitters,  and  chirps,  and  all 
at  once  sinks  like  a  stone  into  the  hedge 
and  out  of  sight  as  a  stone  into  a  pond. 
It  is  a  whitethroat;  his  nest  is  deep  in 
the  parsley  and  nettles.  Presently  he 
will  go  out  to  the  island  apple-tree  and 
back  again  in  a  minute  or  two ;  the  pair  of 
them  are  so  fond  of  each  other's  affection- 
ate company  they  cannot  remain  apart. 

Watching  the  line  of  the  hedge,  about 
every  two  minutes,  either  near  at  hand  or 
yonder  a  bird  darts  out  just  at  the  level  of 
the  grass,  hovers  a  second  with  labouring 
wings,  and  returns  as  swiftly  to  the  cover. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  flycatcher,  sometimes  a 
greenfinch,  or  chaffinch,  now  and  then 
a  robin,  in  one  place  a  shrike,  perhaps 

18 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

another  is  a  redstart.  They  are  flyfishing 
all  of  them,  seizing  insects  from  the  sorrel 
tips  and  grass,  as  the  kingfisher  takes  a 
roach  from  the  water.  A  blackbird  slips 
up  into  the  oak  and  a  dove  descends  in 
the  corner  by  the  chestnut  tree.  But  these 
are  not  visible  together,  only  one  at  a  time 
and  with  intervals.  The  larger  part  of  the 
life  of  the  hedge  is  out  of  sight.  All  the 
thrush-fledglings,  the  young  blackbirds, 
and  finches  are  hidden,  most  of  them  on 
the  mound  among  the  ivy,  and  parsley,  and 
rough  grasses,  protected  too  by  a  roof  of 
brambles.  The  nests  that  still  have  eggs 
are  not,  like  the  nests  of  the  early  days  of 
April,  easily  found;  they  are  deep  down 
in  the  tangled  herbage  by  the  shore  of 
the  ditch,  or  far  inside  the  thorny  thickets 
which  then  looked  mere  bushes,  and  are 
now  so  broad.  Landrails  are  running  in 
the  grass  concealed  as  a  man  would  be 
in  a  wood ;  they  have  nests  and  eggs  on 
the  ground  for  which  you  may  search  in 
vain  till  the  mowers  come. 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

Up  in  the  corner  a  fragment  of  white  fur 
and  marks  of  scratching  show  where  a  doe 
has  been  preparing  for  a  litter.  Some  well 
trodden  runs  lead  from  mound  to  mound; 
they  are  sandy  near  the  hedge  where  the 
particles  have  been  carried  out  adhering 
to  the  rabbits'  feet  and  fur.  A  crow  rises 
lazily  from  the  upper  end  of  the  field,  and 
perches  in  the  chestnut.  His  presence, 
too,  was  unsuspected.  He  is  there  by  far 
too  frequently.  At  this  season  the  crows 
are  always  in  the  mowing  grass,  searching 
about,  stalking  in  winding  tracks  from 
furrow  to  furrow,  picking  up  an  egg  here 
and  a  foolish  fledgling  that  has  wandered 
from  the  mound  yonder.  Very  likely  there 
may  be  a  moorhen  or  two  slipping  about 
under  cover  of  the  long  grass,  thus  hidden 
they  can  leave  the  shelter  of  the  flags  and 
wander  a  distance  from  the  brook.  So 
that  beneath  the  surface  of  the  grass  and 
under  the  screen  of  the  leaves  there  are 
ten  times  more  birds  than  are  seen. 

Besides  the  singing  and  calling,  there 


THE   PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

is  a  peculiar  sound  which  is  only  heard 
in  summer.  Waiting  quietly  to  discover 
what  birds  are  about,  I  become  aware  of 
a  sound  in  the  very  air.  It  is  not  the 
midsummer  hum  which  will  soon  be  heard 
over  the  heated  hay  in  the  valley  and  over 
the  cooler  hills  alike.  It  is  not  enough  to 
be  called  a  hum,  and  does  but  just  tremble 
at  the  extreme  edge  of  hearing.  If  the 
branches  wave  and  rustle  they  overbear 
it ;  the  buzz  of  a  passing  bee  is  so  much 
louder  it  overcomes  all  of  it  that  is  in  the 
whole  field.  I  cannot  define  it  except  by 
calling  the  hours  of  winter  to  mind — they 
are  silent;  you  hear  a  branch  crack  or 
creak  as  it  rubs  another  in  the  wood,  you 
hear  the  hoar  frost  crunch  on  the  grass 
beneath  your  feet,  but  the  air  is  without 
sound  in  itself.  The  sound  of  summer  is 
everywhere — in  the  passing  breeze,  in  the 
hedge,  in  the  broad-branching  trees,  in  the 
grass  as  it  swings ;  all  the  myriad  particles 
that  together  make  the  summer  varied  are 
in  motion.  The  sap  moves  in  the  trees, 

21 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

the  pollen  is  pushed  out  from  grass  and 
flower,  and  yet  again  these  acres  and  acres 
of  leaves  and  square  miles  of  grass  blades 
— for  they  would  cover  acres  and  square 
miles  if  reckoned  edge  to  edge — are  draw- 
ing their  strength  from  the  atmosphere. 
Exceedingly  minute  as  these  vibrations 
must  be,  their  numbers  perhaps  may  give 
them  a  volume  almost  reaching  in  the 
aggregate  to  the  power  of  the  ear.  Be- 
sides the  quivering  leaf,  the  swinging 
grass,  the  fluttering  bird's  wing,  and  the 
thousand  oval  membranes  which  innumer- 
able insects  whirl  about,  a  faint  resonance 
seems  to  come  from  the  very  earth  itself. 
The  fervour  of  the  sunbeams  descending 
in  a  tidal  flood  rings  on  the  strung  harp 
of  earth.  It  is  this  exquisite  undertone, 
heard  and  yet  unheard,  which  brings  the 
mind  into  sweet  accordance  with  the 
wonderful  instrument  of  nature. 

By  the  apple-tree  there  is  a  low  bank, 
where  the  grass  is  less  tall  and  admits  the 
heat  direct  to  the  ground;  here  there  are 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

blue  flowers — bluer  than  the  wings  of  my 
favourite  butterflies — with  white  centres 
— the  lovely  bird's-eyes,  or  veronica.  The 
violet  and  cowslip,  bluebell  and  rose,  are 
known  to  thousands ;  the  veronica  is  over- 
looked. The  ploughboys  know  it,  and 
the  wayside  children,  the  mower  and  those 
who  linger  in  fields,  but  few  else.  Brightly 
blue  and  surrounded  by  greenest  grass, 
imbedded  in  and  all  the  more  blue  for 
the  shadow  of  the  grass,  these  growing 
butterflies'  wings  draw  to  themselves  the 
sun.  From  this  island  I  look  down  into 
the  depth  of  the  grasses.  Red  sorrel 
spires — deep  drinkers  of  reddest  sun  wine 
— stand  the  boldest,  and  in  their  numbers 
threaten  the  buttercups.  To  these  in  the 
distance  they  give  the  gipsy-gold  tint — 
the  reflection  of  fire  on  plates  of  the  pre- 
cious metal.  It  will  show  even  on  a  ring 
by  firelight;  blood  in  the  gold,  they  say. 
Gather  the  open  marguerite  daisies,  and 
they  seem  large  —  so  wide  a  disc,  such 
fingers  of  rays;  but  in  the  grass  their  size 


23 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

is  toned  by  so  much  green.  Clover  heads 
of  honey  lurk  in  the  bunches  and  by  the 
hidden  footpath.  Like  clubs  from  Poly- 
nesia the  tips  of  the  grasses  are  varied  in 
shape,  some  tend  to  a  point — the  foxtails 
— some  are  hard  and  cylindrical;  others, 
avoiding  the  club  shape,  put  forth  the 
slenderest  branches  with  fruit  of  seed  at 
the  ends,  which  tremble  as  the  air  goes 
by.  Their  stalks  are  ripening  and  becom- 
ing of  the  colour  of  hay  while  yet  the 
long  blades  remain  green. 

Each  kind  is  repeated  a  hundred  times, 
the  foxtails  are  succeeded  by  foxtails,  the 
narrow  blades  by  narrow  blades,  but  never 
become  monotonous;  sorrel  stands  by 
sorrel,  daisy  flowers  by  daisy.  This  bed  of 
veronica  at  the  foot  of  the  ancient  apple 
has  a  whole  handful  of  flowers,  and  yet 
they  do  not  weary  the  eye.  Oak  follows 
oak  and  elm  ranks  with  elm,  but  the  wood- 
lands are  pleasant;  however  many  times 
reduplicated,  their  beauty  only  increases. 
So,  too,  the  summer  days;  the  sun  rises  on 

24 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

the  same  grasses  and  green  hedges,  there 
is  the  same  blue  sky,  but  did  we  ever  have 
enough  of  them  ?  No,  not  in  a  hundred 
years!  There  seems  always  a  depth, 
somewhere,  unexplored,  a  thicket  that 
has  not  been  seen  through,  a  corner  full 
of  ferns,  a  quaint  old  hollow  tree,  which 
may  give  us  something.  Bees  go  by  me 
as  I  stand  under  the  apple,  but  they  pass 
on  for  the  most  part  bound  on  a  long 
journey,  across  to  the  clover  fields  or  up 
to  the  thyme  lands;  only  a  few  go  down 
into  the  mowing  grass.  The  hive  bees 
are  the  most  impatient  of  insects;  they 
cannot  bear  to  entangle  their  wings  beat- 
ing against  grasses  or  boughs.  Not  one 
will  enter  a  hedge.  They  like  an  open  and 
level  surface,  places  cropped  by  sheep, 
the  sward  by  the  roadside,  fields  of  clover, 
where  the  flower  is  not  deep  under  grass. 


II 

It  is  the  patient  humble  bee  that  goes 
down  into  the  forest  of  the  mowing  grass. 
If  entangled,  the  humble  bee  climbs  up  a 
sorrel  stem  and  takes  wing,  without  any 
sign  of  annoyance.  His  broad  back  with 
tawny  bar  buoyantly  glides  over  the  gold- 
en buttercups.  He  hums  to  himself  as 
he  goes,  so  happy  is  he.  He  knows  no 
skep,  no  cunning  work  in  glass  receives 
his  labour,  no  artificial  saccharine  aids  him 
when  the  beams  of  the  sun  are  cold,  there 
is  no  step  to  his  house  that  he  may  alight 
in  comfort;  the  way  is  not  made  clear 
for  him  that  he  may  start  straight  for  the 
flowers,  nor  are  any  sown  for  him.  He 
has  no  shelter  if  the  storm  descends  sud- 
denly; he  has  no  dome  of  twisted  straw 
well  thatched  and  tiled  to  retreat  to.  The 
butcher-bird,  with  a  beak  like  a  crocked 
iron  nail,  drives  him  to  the  ground,  and 
leaves  him  pierced  with  a  thorn ;  but  no 
hail  of  shot  revenges  his  tortures.  The 

26 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

grass  stiffens  at  nightfall  (in  autumn),  and 
he  must  creep  where  he  may,  if  possibly  he 
may  escape  the  frost.  No  one  cares  for 
the  humble  bee.  But  down  to  the  flower- 
ing nettle  in  the  mossy-sided  ditch,  up  into 
the  tall  elm,  winding  in  and  out  and  round 
the  branched  buttercups,  along  the  banks 
of  the  brook,  far  inside  the  deepest  wood, 
away  he  wanders  and  despises  nothing. 
His  nest  is  under  the  rough  grasses  and 
the  mosses  of  the  mound,  a  mere  tunnel 
beneath  the  fibres  and  matted  surface. 
The  hawthorn  overhangs  it,  the  fern  grows 
by,  red  mice  rustle  past. 

It  thunders,  and  the  great  oak  trembles ; 
the  heavy  rain  drops  through  the  treble 
roof  of  oak  and  hawthorn  and  fern. 
Under  the  arched  branches  the  lightning 
plays  along,  swiftly  to  and  fro,  or  seems 
to,  like  the  swish  of  a  whip,  a  yellowish- 
red  against  the  green ;  a  boom !  a  crackle 
as  if  a  tree  fell  from  the  sky.  The  thick 
grasses  are  bowed,  the  white  florets  of  the 
wild  parsley  are  beaten  down,  the  rain 


27 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

hurls  itself,  and  suddenly  a  fierce  blast 
tears  the  green  oak  leaves  and  whirls  them 
out  into  the  fields;  but  the  humble  bee's 
home,  under  moss  and  matted  fibres, 
remains  uninjured.  His  house  at  the  root 
of  the  king  of  trees  like  a  cave  in  the  rock, 
is  safe.  The  storm  passes  and  the  sun 
comes  out,  the  air  is  the  sweeter  and  the 
richer  for  the  rain,  like  verse  with  a  rhyme; 
there  will  be  more  honey  in  the  flowers. 
Humble  he  is,  but  wild;  always  in  the 
field,  the  wood ;  always  by  the  banks  and 
thickets ;  always  wild  and  humming  to  his 
flowers.  Therefore  I  like  the  humble  bee, 
being,  at  heart  at  least,  for  ever  roaming 
among  the  woodlands  and  the  hills  and 
by  the  brooks.  In  such  quick  summer 
storms  the  lightning  gives  the  impression 
of  being  far  more  dangerous  than  the 
zig-zag  paths  traced  on  the  autumn  sky. 
The  electric  cloud  seems  almost  level  with 
the  ground  and  the  livid  flame  to  rush  to 
and  fro  beneath  the  boughs  as  the  little 
bats  do  in  the  evening. 

28 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

Caught  by  such  a  cloud,  I  have  stayed 
under  thick  larches  at  the  edge  of  planta- 
tions. They  are  no  shelter,  but  conceal 
one  perfectly.  The  wood  pigeons  come 
home  to  their  nest-trees;  in  larches  they 
seem  to  have  permanent  nests,  almost 
like  rooks.  Kestrels,  too,  come  home  to 
the  wood.  Pheasants  crow,  but  not  from 
fear — from  defiance;  in  fear  they  scream. 
The  boom  startles  them,  and  they  instant- 
ly defy  the  sky.  The  rabbits  quietly  feed 
on  out  in  the  field  between  the  thistles  and 
rushes  that  so  often  grow  in  woodside 
pastures,  quietly  hopping  to  their  favour- 
ite places,  utterly  heedless  how  heavy 
the  echoes  may  be  in  the  hollows  of  the 
wooded  hills.  Till  the  rain  comes  they 
take  no  heed  whatever,  but  then  make  for 
shelter.  Blackbirds  often  make  a  good 
deal  of  noise;  but  the  soft  turtle-doves 
coo  gently,  let  the  lightning  be  as  savage 
as  it  will.  Nothing  has  the  least  fear. 
Man  alone,  more  senseless  than  a  pigeon, 
put  a  god  in  vapour;  and  to  this  day, 

29 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

though  the  printing  press  has  set  a  foot  on 
every  threshold,  numbers  bow  the  knee 
when  they  hear  the  roar  the  timid  dove 
does  not  heed.  So  trustful  are  the  doves, 
the  squirrels,  the  birds  of  the  branches, 
and  the  creatures  of  the  field.  Under 
their  tuition  let  us  rid  ourselves  of  mental 
terrors,  and  face  death  itself  as  calmly  as 
they  do  the  livid  lightning;  so  trustful 
and  so  content  with  their  fate,  resting  in 
themselves  and  unappalled.  If  but  by 
reason  and  will  I  could  reach  the  godlike 
calm  and  courage  of  what  we  so  thought- 
lessly call  the  timid  turtle-dove,  I  should 
lead  a  nearly  perfect  life. 

The  bark  of  the  ancient  apple-tree  under 
which  I  have  been  standing  is  shrunken 
like  iron  which  has  been  heated  and  let 
cool  round  the  rim  of  a  wheel.  For  a  hun- 
dred years  the  horses  have  rubbed  against 
it  while  feeding  in  the  aftermath.  The 
scales  of  the  bark  are  gone  or  smoothed 
down  and  level,  so  that  insects  have  no 
hiding-place.  There  are  no  crevices  for 

30 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

them,  the  horsehairs  that  were  caught 
anywhere  have  been  carried  away  by  birds 
for  their  nests.  The  trunk  is  smooth  and 
columnar,  hard  as  iron.  A  hundred  times 
the  mowing  grass  has  grown  up  around 
it,  the  birds  have  built  their  nests,  the 
butterflies  fluttered  by,  and  the  acorns 
dropped  from  the  oaks.  It  is  a  long,  long 
time,  counted  by  artificial  hours  or  by  the 
seasons,  but  it  is  longer  still  in  another 
way.  The  greenfinch  in  the  hawthorn 
yonder  has  been  there  since  I  came  out, 
and  all  the  time  has  been  happily  talking 
to  his  love.  He  has  left  the  hawthorn 
indeed,  but  only  for  a  minute  or  two,  to 
fetch  a  few  seeds,  and  comes  back  each 
time  more  full  of  song-talk  than  ever. 
He  notes  no  slow  movement  of  the  oak's 
shadow  on  the  grass;  it  is  nothing  to 
him  and  his  lady  dear  that  the  sun,  as 
seen  from  his  nest,  is  crossing  from  one 
great  bough  of  the  oak  to  another.  The 
dew  even  in  the  deepest  and  most  tangled 
grass  has  long  since  been  dried,  and  some 

31 


THE   PAGEANT    OF   SUMMER 

of  the  flowers  that  close  at  noon  will 
shortly  fold  their  petals.  The  morning 
airs,  which  breathe  so  sweetly,  come  less 
and  less  frequently  as  the  heat  increases. 
Vanishing  from  the  sky,  the  last  fragments 
of  cloud  have  left  an  untarnished  azure. 
Many  times  the  bees  have  returned  to 
their  hives,  and  thus  the  index  of  the  day 
advances.  It  is  nothing  to  the  green- 
finches; all  their  thoughts  are  in  their 
song-talk.  The  sunny  moment  is  to  them 
all  in  all.  So  deeply  are  they  rapt  in  it  that 
they  do  not  know  whether  it  is  a  moment 
or  a  year.  There  is  no  clock  for  feeling,  for 
joy,  for  love.  And  with  all  their  motions 
and  stepping  from  bough  to  bough,  they 
are  not  restless ;  they  have  so  much  time, 
you  see.  So,  too,  the  whitethroat  in  the 
wild  parsley;  so,  too,  the  thrush  that  just 
now  peered  out  and  partly  fluttered  his 
wings  as  he  stood  to  look.  A  butterfly 
comes  and  stays  on  a  leaf — a  leaf  much 
warmed  by  the  sun  —  and  shuts  his  wings. 
In  a  minute  he  opens  them,  shuts  them 

32 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

again,  half  wheels  round,  and  by  and  by 
— just  when  he  chooses,  and  not  before — 
floats  away.  The  flowers  open,  and  remain 
open  for  hours,  to  the  sun.  Hasteless- 
ness  is  the  only  word  one  can  make  up  to 
describe  it;  there  is  much  rest,  but  no 
haste.  Each  moment,  as  with  the  green- 
finches, is  so  full  of  life  that  it  seems  so 
long  and  so  sufficient  in  itself.  Not  only 
the  days,  but  life  itself  lengthens  in  sum- 
mer. I  would  spread  abroad  my  arms  and 
gather  more  of  it  to  me,  could  I  do  so. 

All  the  procession  of  living  and  growing 
things  passes.  The  grass  stands  up  taller 
and  still  taller,  the  sheaths  open,  and  the 
stalk  arises,  the  pollen  clings  till  the  breeze 
sweeps  it.  The  bees  rush  past,  and  the 
resolute  wasps ;  the  humble  bees,  whose 
weight  swings  them  along.  About  the 
oaks  and  maples  the  brown  chafers  swarm, 
and  the  fern-owls  at  dusk,  and  the  black- 
birds and  jays  by  day,  cannot  reduce  their 
legions  while  they  last.  Yellow  butter- 
flies, and  white,  broad  red  admirals,  and 

33 


THE   PAGEANT    OF   SUMMER 

sweet  blues;  think  of  the  kingdom  of 
flowers  which  is  theirs !  Heavy  moths 
burring  at  the  edge  of  the  copse ;  green, 
and  red,  and  gold  flies ;  gnats,  like  smoke, 
around  the  tree  tops;  midges  so  thick 
over  the  brook,  as  if  you  could  haul  a  net 
full ;  tiny  leaping  creatures  in  the  grass ; 
bronze  beetles  across  the  path;  blue 
dragonflies  pondering  on  cool  leaves  of 
water-plantain.  Blue  jays  flitting,  a  mag- 
pie drooping  across  from  elm  to  elm; 
young  rooks  that  have  escaped  the  hostile 
shot  blundering  up  into  the  branches; 
missel  thrushes  leading  their  fledglings, 
already  strong  on  the  wing,  from  field  to 
field.  An  egg  here  on  the  sward  dropped 
by  a  starling ;  a  red  ladybird  creeping  tor- 
toise-like, up  a  green  fern  frond.  Finches 
undulating  through  the  air,  shooting 
themselves  with  closed  wings,  and  linnets 
happy  with  their  young. 

Golden  dandelion  discs  —  gold  and 
orange — of  a  hue  more  beautiful,  I  think, 
than  the  higher  and  more  visible  butter- 

34 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

cup.  A  blackbird,  gleaming,  so  black  is 
he,  splashing  in  the  runlet  of  water  across 
the  gateway.  A  ruddy  kingfisher  swiftly 
drawing  himself,  as  you  might  draw  a 
stroke  with  a  pencil,  over  the  surface  of 
the  yellow  buttercups,  and  away  above 
the  hedge.  Hart's-tongue  fern,  thick  with 
green,  so  green  as  to  be  thick  with  its 
colour,  deep  in  the  ditch  under  the  shady 
hazel  boughs.  White  meadow-sweet  lift- 
ing its  tiny  florets,  and  black  flowered 
sedges.  You  must  push  through  the  reed 
grass  to  find  the  sword  flags;  the  stout 
willow  herbs  will  not  be  trampled  down, 
but  resist  the  foot  like  underwood.  Pink 
lychnis  flowers  behind  the  withy  stoles, 
and  little  black  moorhens  swim  away,  as 
you  gather  it,  after  their  mother,  who  has 
dived  under  the  water-grass,  and  broken 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  duckweed. 
Yellow  loosestrife  is  rising,  thick  comfrey 
stands  at  the  very  edge;  the  sandpipers 
run  where  the  shore  is  free  from  bushes. 
Back  by  the  underwood  the  prickly  and 

35 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

repellant  brambles  will  presently  present 
us  with  fruit.  For  the  squirrels  the  nuts 
are  forming,  green  beechmast  is  there — 
green  wedges  under  the  spray;  up  in  the 
oaks  the  small  knots,  like  bark  rolled  up 
in  a  dot,  will  be  acorns.  Purple  vetches 
along  the  mounds,  yellow  lotus  where  the 
grass  is  shorter,  and  orchis  succeeds  to 
orchis.  As  I  write  them,  so  these  things 
come — not  set  in  gradation,  but  like  the 
broadcast  flowers  in  the  mowing  grass. 

Now  follows  the  gorse,  and  the  pink 
rest-harrow,  and  the  sweet  lady's  bed- 
straw,  set  as  it  were  in  the  midst  of  a 
little  thorn-bush.  The  broad  repetition 
of  the  yellow  clover  is  not  to  be  written ; 
acre  upon  acre,  and  not  one  spot  of 
green,  as  if  all  the  green  had  been  planed 
away,  leaving  only  the  flowers  to  which 
the  bees  come  by  the  thousand  from  far 
and  near.  But  one  white  campion 
stands  in  the  midst  of  the  lake  of  yellow. 
The  field  is  scented  as  though  a  hundred 
hives  of  honey  had  been  emptied  on  it. 

36 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

Along  the  mound  by  it  the  blue-bells  are 
seeding,  the  hedge  has  been  cut  and  the 
ground  is  strewn  with  twigs.  Among 
those  seeding  blue-bells  and  dry  twigs 
and  mosses  I  think  a  titlark  has  his  nest, 
as  he  stays  all  day  there  and  in  the  oak 
over.  The  pale  clear  yellow  of  charlock, 
sharp  and  clear,  promises  the  finches 
bushels  of  seed  for  their  young.  Under 
the  scarlet  of  the  poppies  the  larks  run, 
and  then  for  change  of  colour  soar  into 
the  blue.  Creamy  honeysuckle  on  the 
hedge  around  the  cornfield,  buds  of  wild 
rose  everywhere,  but  no  sweet  petal  yet. 
Yonder,  where  the  wheat  can  climb  no 
higher  up  the  slope,  are  the  purple  heath 
bells,  thyme  and  flitting  stone-chats. 

The  lone  barn  shut  off  by  acres  of 
barley  is  noisy  with  sparrows.  It  is  their 
city,  and  there  is  a  nest  in  every  crevice, 
almost  under  every  tile.  Sometimes  the 
partridges  run  between  the  ricks,  and 
when  the  bats  come  out  of  the  roof, 
leverets  play  in  the  waggon-track.  At 

37 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

even  a  fern-owl  beats  by,  passing  close  to 
the  eaves  whence  the  moths  issue.  On 
the  narrow  waggon-track  which  descends 
along  a  coombe  and  is  worn  in  chalk,  the 
heat  pours  down  by  day  as  if  an  invisible 
lens  in  the  atmosphere  focussed  the  sun's 
rays.  Strong  woody  knapweed  endures 
it,  so  does  toadflax  and  pale  blue  scabious, 
and  wild  mignonette.  The  very  sun  of 
Spain  burns  and  burns  and  ripens  the 
wheat  on  the  edge  of  the  coombe,  and  will 
only  let  the  spring  moisten  a  yard  or  two 
around  it;  but  there  a  few  rushes  have 
sprung,  and  in  the  water  itself  brooklime 
with  blue  flowers  grows  so  thickly  that 
nothing  but  a  bird  could  find  space  to 
drink.  So  down  again  from  this  sun  of 
Spain  to  woody  coverts  where  the  wild 
hops  are  blocking  every  avenue,  and 
green-flowered  bryony  would  fain  climb 
to  the  trees ;  where  grey-flecked  ivy  winds 
spirally  about  the  red  rugged  bark  of 
pines,  where  burdocks  fight  for  the  foot- 
path, and  teazle-heads  look  over  the  low 

38 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

hedges.  Brake-fern  rises  five  feet  high; 
in  some  way  woodpeckers  are  associated 
with  brake,  and  there  seem  more  of  them 
where  it  flourishes.  If  you  count  the 
depth  and  strength  of  its  roots  in  the 
loamy  sand,  add  the  thickness  of  its  flat- 
tened stem,  and  the  width  of  its  branching 
fronds,  you  may  say  that  it  comes  near  to 
be  a  little  tree.  Beneath  where  the  ponds 
are  bushy  mare's  tails  grow,  and  on  the 
moist  banks  jointed  pewterwort;  some  of 
the  broad  bronze  leaves  of  water-weeds 
seem  to  try  and  conquer  the  pond  and 
cover  it  so  firmly  that  a  wagtail  may  run 
on  them.  A  white  butterfly  follows 
along  the  waggon-road,  the  pheasants 
slip  away  as  quietly  as  the  butterfly  flies, 
but  a  jay  screeches  loudly  and  flutters 
in  high  rage  to  see  us.  Under  an 
ancient  garden  wall  among  matted  bines 
of  trumpet  convolvulus,  there  is  a  hedge- 
sparrow's  nest  overhung  with  ivy  on 
which  even  now  the  last  black  berries 
cling. 


39 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

There  are  minute  white  flowers  on  the 
top  of  the  wall,  out  of  reach,  and  lichen 
grows  against  it  dried  by  the  sun  until  it 
looks  ready  to  crumble.  By  the  gateway 
grows  a  thick  bunch  of  meadow  geranium, 
soon  to  flower;  over  the  gate  is  the  dusty 
highway  road,  quiet  but  dusty,  dotted  with 
the  innumerable  footmarks  of  a  flock  of 
sheep  that  has  passed.  The  sound  of  their 
bleating  still  comes  back,  and  the  bees 
driven  up  by  their  feet  have  hardly  had 
time  to  settle  again  on  the  white  clover 
beginning  to  flower  on  the  short  roadside 
sward.  All  the  hawthorn  leaves  and 
briar  and  bramble,  the  honeysuckle,  too, 
is  gritty  with  the  dust  that  has  been 
scattered  upon  it.  But  see — can  it  be? 
Stretch  a  hand  high,  quick,  and  reach  it 
down ;  the  first,  the  sweetest,  the  dearest 
rose  of  June.  Not  yet  expected,  for  the 
time  is  between  the  may  and  the  roses, 
least  of  all  here  in  the  hot  and  dusty 
highway;  but  it  is  found — the  first  rose 
of  June. 

40 


THE   PAGEANT    OF   SUMMER 

Straight  go  the  white  petals  to  the 
heart;  straight  the  mind's  glance  goes 
back  to  how  many  other  pageants  of 
summer  in  old  times!  When  perchance 
the  sunny  days  were  even  more  sunny; 
when  the  stilly  oaks  were  full  of  mystery, 
lurking  like  the  Druid's  mistletoe  in  the 
midst  of  their  mighty  branches.  A 
glamour  in  the  heart  came  back  to  it 
again  from  every  flower;  as  the  sunshine 
was  reflected  from  them  so  the  feeling 
in  the  heart  returned  tenfold.  To  the 
dreamy  summer  haze  love  gave  a  deep 
enchantment,  the  colours  were  fairer,  the 
blue  more  lovely  in  the  lucid  sky.  Each 
leaf  finer,  and  the  gross  earth  enamelled 
beneath  the  feet.  A  sweet  breath  on  the 
air,  a  soft  warm  hand  in  the  touch  of 
the  sunshine,  a  glance  in  the  gleam  of  the 
rippled  waters,  a  whisper  in  the  dance 
of  the  shadows.  The  ethereal  haze  lifted 
the  heavy  oaks  and  they  were  buoyant  on 
the  mead,  the  rugged  bark  was  chastened 
and  no  longer  rough,  each  slender  flower 


THE    PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

beneath  them  again  refined.  There  was 
a  presence  everywhere  with  us  though 
unseen,  with  us  on  the  open  hills,  and  not 
shut  out  under  the  dark  pines.  Dear 
were  the  June  roses  then  because  for 
another  gathered.  Yet  even  dearer  now 
with  so  many  years  as  it  were  upon  the 
petals;  all  the  days  that  have  been 
before,  all  the  heart-throbs,  all  our  hopes 
lie  in  this  opened  bud.  Let  not  the  eyes 
grow  dim,  look  not  back  but  forward; 
the  soul  must  uphold  itself  like  the  sun. 
Let  us  labour  to  make  the  heart  grow 
larger  as  we  become  older,  as  the  spread- 
ing oak  gives  more  shelter.  That  we 
could  but  take  to  the  soul  some  of  the 
greatness  and  the  beauty  of  the  summer! 
Still  the  pageant  moves.  The  song- 
talk  of  the  finches  rises  and  sinks  like  the 
tinkle  of  a  waterfall.  The  greenfinches 
have  been  by  me  all  the  while.  A  bull- 
finch pipes  now  and  then  further  up  the 
hedge  where  the  brambles  and  thorns  are 
thickest.  Boldest  of  birds  to  look  at,  he 

42 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

is  always  in  hiding.  The  shrill  tone  of  a 
goldfinch  came  just  now  from  the  ash 
branches,  but  he  has  gone  on.  Every  four 
or  five  minutes  a  chaffinch  sings  close  by, 
and  another  fills  the  interval  near  the 
gateway.  There  are  linnets  somewhere, 
but  I  cannot  from  the  old  apple-tree  fix 
their  exact  place.  Thrushes  have  sung 
and  ceased ;  they  will  begin  again  in  ten 
minutes.  The  blackbirds  do  not  cease; 
the  note  uttered  by  a  blackbird  in  the  oak 
yonder  before  it  can  drop  is  taken  up  by  a 
second  near  the  top  of  the  field,  and  ere  it 
falls  is  caught  by  a  third  on  the  left-hand 
side.  From  one  of  the  topmost  boughs 
of  an  elm  there  fell  the  song  of  a  willow 
warbler  for  awhile;  one  of  the  least  of 
birds,  he  often  seeks  the  highest  branches 
of  the  highest  tree. 

A  yellowhammer  has  just  flown  from  a 
bare  branch  in  the  gateway,  where  he  has 
been  perched  and  singing  a  full  hour. 
Presently  he  will  commence  again,  and 
as  the  sun  declines  will  sing  him  to  the 


43 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

horizon,  and  then  again  sing  till  nearly 
dusk.  The  yellowhammer  is  almost  the 
longest  of  all  the  singers ;  he  sits  and  sits 
and  has  no  inclination  to  move.  In  the 
spring  he  sings,  in  the  summer  he  sings, 
and  he  continues  when  the  last  sheaves 
are  being  carried  from  the  wheat  field. 
The  redstart  yonder  has  given  forth  a  few 
notes,  the  whitethroat  flings  himself  into 
the  air  at  short  intervals  and  chatters,  the 
shrike  calls  sharp  and  determined,  faint 
but  shrill  calls  descend  from  the  swifts  in 
the  air.  These  descend,  but  the  twittering 
notes  of  the  swallows  do  not  reach  so  far, 
they  are  too  high  to-day.  A  cuckoo  has 
called  by  the  brook,  and  now  fainter  from 
a  greater  distance.  That  the  titlarks  are 
singing  I  know,  but  not  within  hearing 
from  here;  a  dove  though,  is  audible, 
and  a  chiffchaff  has  twice  passed.  Afar 
beyond  the  oaks  at  the  top  of  the  field 
dark  specks  ascend  from  time  to  time, 
and  after  moving  in  wide  circles  for 
awhile  descend  again  to  the  corn.  These 

44 


THE   PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

must  be  larks ;  but  their  notes  are  not 
powerful  enough  to  reach  me,  though 
they  would  were  it  not  for  the  song  in  the 
hedges,  the  hum  of  innumerable  insects, 
and  the  ceaseless  'crake,  crake'  of  land- 
rails. There  are  at  least  two  landrails 
in  the  mowing  grass;  one  of  them  just 
now  seemed  coming  straight  towards  the 
apple-tree,  and  I  expected  in  a  minute  to 
see  the  grass  move,  when  the  bird  turned 
aside  and  entered  the  tufts  and  wild  pars- 
ley by  the  hedge.  Thence  the  call  has 
come  without  a  moment's  pause,  'crake, 
crake,'  till  the  thick  hedge  seems  filled 
with  it.  Tits  have  visited  the  apple- 
tree  over  my  head,  a  wren  has  sung  in 
the  willow,  or  rather  on  a  dead  branch 
projecting  lower  down  than  the  leafy 
boughs,  and  a  robin  across  under  the 
elms  in  the  opposite  hedge.  Elms  are  a 
favourite  tree  of  robins,  not  the  upper 
branches,  but  those  that  grow  down  the 
trunk,  and  are  the  first  to  have  leaves  in 
spring. 

45 


THE    PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

The  yellowhammer  is  the  most  per- 
sistent individually,  but  I  think  the 
blackbirds  when  listened  to  are  the 
masters  of  the  fields.  Before  one  can 
finish  another  begins,  like  the  summer 
ripples  succeeding  behind  each  other,  so 
that  the  melodious  sound  merely  changes 
its  position.  Now  here,  now  in  the 
corners,  then  across  the  field,  again  in 
the  distant  copse,  where  it  seems  about 
to  sink,  when  it  rises  again  almost  at 
hand.  Like  a  great  human  artist,  the 
blackbird  makes  no  effort,  being  fully 
conscious  that  his  liquid  tone  cannot  be 
matched.  He  utters  a  few  delicious 
notes,  and  carelessly  quits  the  green 
stage  of  the  oak  till  it  pleases  him  to 
sing  again.  Without  the  blackbird,  in 
whose  throat  the  sweetness  of  the  green 
fields  dwells,  the  days  would  be  only 
partly  summer.  Without  the  violet  all 
the  bluebells  and  cowslips  could  not 
make  a  spring,  and  without  the  black- 
bird, even  the  nightingale  would  be  but 


THE   PAGEANT   OF    SUMMER 

half  welcome.  It  is  not  yet  noon,  these 
songs  have  been  ceaseless  since  dawn; 
this  evening  after  the  yellowhammer  has 
sung  the  sun  down,  when  the  moon  rises 
and  the  faint  stars  appear,  still  the  cuckoo 
will  call,  and  the  grasshopper  lark,  the 
landrail's  'crake,  crake'  will  echo  from 
the  mound,  a  warbler  or  a  blackcap  will 
utter  its  notes,  and  even  at  the  darkest 
of  the  summer  night  the  swallows  will 
hardly  sleep  in  their  nests.  As  the 
morning  sky  grows  blue,  an  hour  before 
the  sun,  up  will  rise  the  larks  singing  and 
audible  now,  the  cuckoo  will  recommence, 
and  the  swallows  will  start  again  on  their 
tireless  journey.  So  that  the  songs  of 
the  summer  birds  are  as  ceaseless  as  the 
sound  of  the  waterfall  which  plays  day 
and  night. 

I  cannot  leave  it,  I  must  stay  under  the 
old  tree  in  the  midst  of  the  long  grass, 
the  luxury  of  the  leaves,  and  the  song 
in  the  very  air.  I  seem  as  if  I  could 
feel  all  the  glowing  life  the  sunshine 


47 


THE    PAGEANT    OF    SUMMER 

gives  and  the  south  wind  calls  to  being. 
The  endless  grass,  the  endless  leaves, 
the  immense  strength  of  the  oak  expand- 
ing, the  unalloyed  joy  of  finch  and 
blackbird;  from  all  of  them  I  receive 
a  little.  Each  gives  me  something  of 
the  pure  joy  they  gather  for  themselves. 
In  the  blackbird's  melody  one  note  is 
mine;  in  the  dance  of  the  leaf  shadows 
the  formed  maze  is  for  me,  though  the 
motion  is  theirs;  the  flowers  with  a 
thousand  faces  have  collected  the  kisses 
of  the  morning.  Feeling  with  them,  I 
receive  some,  at  least,  of  their  fulness 
of  life.  Never  could  I  have  enough; 
never  stay  long  enough  —  whether  here 
or  whether  lying  on  the  shorter  sward 
under  the  sweeping  and  graceful  birches, 
or  on  the  thyme-scented  hills.  Hour 
after  hour,  and  still  not  enough.  Or 
walking  the  footpath  was  never  long 
enough,  or  my  strength  sufficient  to 
endure  till  the  mind  was  weary.  The 
exceeding  beauty  of  the  earth,  in  her 

48 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

splendour  of  life,  yields  a  new  thought 
with  every  petal.  The  hours  when  the 
mind  is  absorbed  by  beauty  are  the  only 
hours  when  we  really  live,  so  that  the 
longer  we  can  stay  among  these  things 
so  much  the  more  is  snatched  from  inev- 
itable Time.  Let  the  shadow  advance 
upon  the  dial  —  I  can  watch  it  with  equa- 
nimity while  it  is  there  to  be  watched. 
It  is  only  when  the  shadow  is  not  there, 
when  the  clouds  of  winter  cover  it,  that 
the  dial  is  terrible.  The  invisible  shadow 
goes  on  and  steals  from  us.  But  now, 
while  I  can  see  the  shadow  of  the  tree 
and  watch  it  slowly  gliding  along  the 
surface  of  the  grass,  it  is  mine.  These 
are  the  only  hours  that  are  not  wasted 
—  these  hours  that  absorb  the  soul  and 
fill  it  with  beauty.  This  is  real  life, 
and  all  else  is  illusion,  or  mere  endurance. 
Does  this  reverie  of  flowers  and  waterfall 
and  song  form  an  ideal,  a  human  ideal, 
in  the  mind?  It  does;  much  the  same 
ideal  that  Phidias  sculptured  of  man  and 

49 


THE   PAGEANT   OF   SUMMER 

woman  filled  with  a  godlike  sense  of  the 
violet  fields  of  Greece,  beautiful  beyond 
thought,  calm  as  my  turtle-dove  before 
the  lurid  lightning  of  the  unknown.  To 
be  beautiful  and  to  be  calm,  without 
mental  fear,  is  the  ideal  of  nature.  If  I 
cannot  achieve  it,  at  least  I  can  think  it. 


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OF  MAY,  A.  D.  MDCCCCI,  AT 

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LORING,  PORTLAND,  MAINE. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
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